False Witness (15 page)

“She might have. Isn’t that the point? She could just as easily have picked someone—anyone—else, in her confused frame of mind. And incorporated him ...”

“You just said all that part, about how she inadvertently incorporated Dr. David Cohen into the nightmare.”

“So?”

“So, nothing. So the fact
is
she didn’t pick out you or Regg Morris or Dr. Esposito or Dr. Waverly or Jose Peppino, the orderly, or Thomas Clark, the physical therapist, or George Whatsisname, the respiratory guy. She
did
pick out
David Cohen.”

“How about this, Lynne? How about I establish an airtight, chip-proof alibi for David Cohen. Before I start on one of my famous back-to-the-womb investigations.”

“You got something better to do with your time, old Bobby Jones?”

“Yes. For instance, trying to come up with a more likely perpetrator-candidate.”

“You know, or should know, my opinion of the airtight, chip-proof a-fucking-number-one alibi. A perfect defense. Except not necessarily. Bring me a man who was a guest speaker in front of three hundred people between the hours of eight and ten of a certain night, at which time he has been accused of strangling someone a hundred miles away. Give me a priest and a minister and a rabbi and a virgin, who’ll all swear the subject never left their combined sights during the questioned time. Then,
maybe,
I’ll say he has the perfect alibi. That he,
personally,
didn’t commit the crime. Barring the possibility that he himself committed the crime alleged, while his clone was having dinner and making sure he was being seen by all of the above. Barring the possibility that he personally
hired
an assassin. Barring any and all physical evidence that may connect with him: I might say hell, yes, this guy’s alibi is pretty near perfect. But just for the holy-hell of it, let’s do a background on him anyway. What have we got to lose?”

“Lynne.”

“Bobby, come on. This is all early law school stuff. You give me David Cohen from the day of his birth, through every publicly available fact of his life. Just for the holy-hell of it, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. You want me to spend my time that way, I will. But for God’s sake, just between you and me and little Jhavi next door, can you really, truly even begin to conceive of such a possibility? That this eminent, world-famous microsurgeon, the very man who reattached the severed hand ... that this man could possibly, by any stretch of the imagination, have been involved in the attack on Sanderalee?”

“Bobby, I have a very tiny funny feeling about you on this. You, personally, have come upon many very strange and very totally weird situations on this job. Things never dreamed of in Lincoln, Nebraska. But you are digging your heels in on this. You are absolutely rejecting the slightest possibility, in spite of the fact that our complainant is adamant. Granted her very precarious mental and emotional state as of right now, she seems to me unshakable,
as of right now,
on her ID of David Cohen. Right off the top of your head, Bobby Jones, what’s your problem?”

He stalked to the window, shoved the drapes aside, ignoring the fall of dust that I’d meant to vacuum but hadn’t. Then he jammed his hands in the pockets of his jacket and marched over to where I was sitting, watching him do battle with himself.

“Lynne. No doctor could have done a thing like this.”

“You want me to quote you chapter and verse of atrocities committed by physicians? Ever hear of Auschwitz?”

“Okay. Okay.” He jammed his fists deeper, threw his head back and regarded the ceiling for a moment, as if there were words printed up there for him to recite. I knew exactly what he was going to say. And he said it.

“Jewish doctors don’t do things like this!”

I leaped up and began applauding.

“Terrific. Absolutely wonderful, Bobby Gentile. You’ve caught on to the secrets of my race; of my species; of the set-aside group of humans who are immune to behavior performed by any other group of humans.”

“No, Lynne, what I mean is ...”

“I know, darling. Some of your best friends ... and in fact your best lover is a Jew. Well, Nebraska, let me tell you something you might have forgotten. Something I will never have the luxury of forgetting. That nice Brooklyn College boy, the sweet-natured, obedient, doting only son of hard-working, self-sacrificing parents, that
really
nice Jewish boy, nineteen years old, blew up the airplane his parents were on. And blew up my parents along with his own; and I think ... I’m not sure of the numbers, but he also blew away ninety-something other people.”

Bobby Jones sighed and spread his hands helplessly and said, “Dr. David Cohen, from day one up to and including what he plans to have for breakfast tomorrow morning. You want it, I’ll get it.”

But reluctantly. That was the one major flaw in Bobby Jones, his reluctance to approach an investigation totally with the born prosecutor’s point of view: that anyone, at all, can do anything, at all; is
capable
of committing the most unimaginable acts, given a set of circumstances—emotional, physical, personal, mental, environmental, whatever.

Most of us manage to muddle through life avoiding the combination of motives, circumstances and opportunities that could make monsters of us. In fact, most of us, given a strong motive, in an ideal situation in which to commit atrocious crimes, would not.

But many of us would; a great many of us would. This is where Bobby Jones and I part company. His approach tends to be that of devil’s advocate to my accuser-general.

So now, we had to find out about Dr. David Cohen. At least, one of us was taking the open-ended point of view.

T
HE FIRST TWO SIGNIFICANT
pieces of information re Dr. David Cohen were one, he resided on East 69th Street, between Fifth and Madison Avenues; two, he was a runner.

Of course, any number of people lived in that area, and probably four New Yorkers in six were runners. But
he
was the particular New Yorker who Sanderalee Dawson claimed had told her he had crossed from Fifth Avenue to Central Park West via the 72nd Street transverse. Which would be a logical cut-through for David Cohen, if he wanted to cut through the park. For whatever reason.

Dr. David Cohen was called by his emergency service at 5:05
A.M.,
Wednesday, March 7, 1979, and asked to report to New York Hospital re possible microsurgery. He was at home at the time of the call and apparently had been sleeping. Which meant nothing, one way or the other.

Sanderalee Dawson, prodded further, gently, persuasively by Lucy Capella, stated she was sure—she thought—that during the course of the terrible struggle she jabbed/stabbed her assailant. She guessed with her silver unicorn. She wasn’t totally sure of any of this. It was a passing impression. But yes; she might have stabbed him; jabbed him; scratched him. It was hard to say. There were blank periods; blackouts. Only one thing remained positive: it was him—David Cohen.

Carefully, arrangements were made through the doctor in charge of the case, Dr. Roger Fernow. He was told a believable story by ex-Sister Lucy, whom no one could credit with a lie and who therefore was our most perfect liar: it seems that Sanderalee had developed some kind of aversion to the doctors involved in the rejoining of her hand. Apparently they recalled to her the terror of the event. Could it possibly be arranged, at least for the next few days, that she be attended by Dr. Fernow, at the instruction of the surgeons? So that this hysteria she had developed would not interfere with the information she was now giving to Lucy? No problem, my dear. Is it true you were a teaching nun once? My, my. You must have quite an interesting life story.

Dr. Martha Chan had a quiet visit with Sanderalee. Good old Dr. Chan, sweet face crinkled, told Lucy Capella, “It seems you’ve replaced me as confidante-in-chief. If something unexpected develops, call me.”

Dr. Cohen’s life story, as researched by Bobby Jones, wasn’t particularly interesting; certainly not incredible.

David Leonard Cohen: born 3/12/42, Doctor’s Hospital, Man. Mother: Edna Rubin Cohen, housewife, business partner; Father: Samuel E. Cohen, manufacturer woolen goods, business partner w/wife; weight: 7 lbs. 6 ounces; length: 21”; normal delivery; no previous births.

Education: attended Dalton School, 1947–55; Bronx HS of Science, 1955–59; Cornell Univ., 1959–61; Berkeley, 1961–63; Columbia School of Physicians and Surgeons, 1963–67. Interned: Columbia Presbyterian; resident: LI Jewish Hospital. Married: Melissa Wise; OR nurse, Columbia Presbyterian Hosp., March 12, 1970; Beth Sholom, Manhattan. Wife deceased: April 10, 1974—accident (autopsy/inquest report requested).

Dr. David Cohen returned to Col. Pres. Hosp.—further training orthopedics; studied NY Hosp. Joint Diseases—spec. training orthopedic surgery; studied one year clinic—Switzerland—orthopedic surgery/plastic surgery. Taught Col. School of Physicians and Surgeons—specialty, ortho. surgery; worked in Veterans Hosp.—Wash., D.C., and New York City; also in Los Angeles: specialized treating victims of severe disfiguring trauma—i.e., burn victims; disfiguring limb injuries.

1977: teamed up with Drs. Esposito and Waverly—participant in new microsurgery. Taught techniques at Columbia. Dr. Cohen is one of the very few specialists in the world doing this type of surgery; patients are referred to him and his team from all over the world.

Dr. David Cohen has run in the Boston and NYC Marathons.

Dr. David Cohen was rejected for military service because of a physical condition—not specified (note: will check out—B
.
J.).

The rest of the report contained standard information: his financial standing (no outstanding debts; pays bills on time); has driver’s license; owns 1978 Mercedes SL 450; Dr. Cohen has resided at current address, 48 East 69th Street, tenth floor, for past nine years. Good reputation; nothing derogatory noted.

Dr. David Cohen has never instituted nor been involved in any lawsuit.

Dr. David Cohen has never been arrested; never fined for any violation; never—as far as can be ascertained—been committed to a mental institution, or received psychiatric therapy.

Dr. David Cohen owns a summer cottage in East Hampton; he plays tennis; jogs/runs. Good health; average build and appearance. Dr. David Cohen has a “normal, active social life”; he has been known to date a number of women, generally professional women—doctors, nurses, etc.

“What do they do on their dates, Bobby Jones, hug and kiss in the old-fashioned way, or what?”

“You want I should find that out for you, Boss-Lynne, you just say the word and I’ll find out for you.”

I flipped through the report.

“What happened to his wife? Melissa Wise?”

“I’m getting the synopsis of the inquest in about”—he consulted his wristwatch—“one hour. When are you going to interview the good doctor?”

“Soon. And unless he was sleeping that night with a couple of very wakeful bedmates, actually he has no verifiable alibi.”

“Yeah, but then neither do I,” Bobby Jones pointed out.

“Yeah, but then Sanderalee Dawson hasn’t fingered
you,”
I reminded him. “What physical condition kept him from military service?”

“I’ll have that by tomorrow the latest.”

“Maybe a Jekyll-Hyde syndrome?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Good. I would like that very much. Except of course Jews don’t have the old J-H syndrome, which everyone knows comes from eating pork.”

“Every day I learn something new from you, Lynne.”

“I hope so. My job is to teach. Now get lost, Nebraska.” Lucy Capella reported that Sanderalee had, indeed, told Regg Morris most of what she had told us. I had an appointment with Regg for late in the afternoon, the aim of which was to seek his cooperation. We wanted to maintain a silence for as long as possible. If that was at all possible.

Bobby Jones returned with a synopsis of the inquest report; the full minutes would be forthcoming in a day or so. What we had was intriguing to say the least; suspicious to say the most.

On April 10, 1974, at 11:00
P.M.,
Mrs. Melissa Wise Cohen, wife of Dr. David Cohen, fell or jumped from the balcony of their residence on the tenth floor at 48 East 69th Street. She was clad in a nightgown; no evidence that she had been drinking. Died of massive internal injuries and listed as DOA on arrival at Emergency, NY Hospital.

According to Dr. Cohen, his wife had suffered for many years from manic-depressive syndrome. She was being treated by lithium therapy and had been stable for at least three years. Mrs. Cohen was an OR nurse of extremely competent reputation. Dr. Cohen states that his wife had stopped all medication for a period of about two months. On the evening of her death, he reports she was just beginning to enter what he recognized as a “high swing.” During this time, she tended to behave in a highly irrational, overexcited manner. Dr. Cohen states he and his wife had been watching TV news in their bedroom when his wife rose from bed, began talking about a vacation they were planning. She became very exuberant (note: typical behavior of a “high swing personality”); she “danced” through the living room, describing what clothes she would wear on the forthcoming trip to Mexico. Dr. Cohen states his wife went onto the balcony. He asked her to come back inside; it was raining lightly; she would get wet. States his wife began “to dance about,” turning her face up to the rain; states that as he approached his wife, to restrain her, she somehow pulled herself to a sitting position on the railing, facing him, her back to the street; that she suddenly thrust her arms over her head and as he dove for her, she toppled backward and fell, landing in front of the building.

She was dead on impact. If one injury hadn’t killed her, another had. Any one of at least four of the massive injuries could have caused death.

Her psychiatrist, a Dr. Calendar, testified. His testimony was not included in the synopsis.

Finding of the inquest: death by accident.